The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  Callaway was eager to know what happened next. He nudged her by saying, “Did you see Noah playing by the lake?”

  She paused, as if thinking. “I’m not sure.”

  “What did you see, Hope?” he asked.

  “I just remember being overcome with emotion.”

  “What kind of emotion?”

  “Maternal.”

  “Okay.”

  “I then remember being in the water. It was cold, and my toes began to get prickly.

  “Where was Noah?”

  “He… he was next to me…”

  “In the water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he alive?”

  “I… I don’t know. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, and I remember I was worried that he could catch a cold. I thought about going back to the house to get his jacket.”

  “Did you try to talk to Noah?”

  She looked at Callaway. “Why would I do that?”

  “I mean, he was in the water next to you. Didn’t you want to know if he was okay?”

  “I thought he was. In fact, he looked very peaceful.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “You didn’t wake him?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t want to disturb him.”

  “How long were you in the water?”

  “I don’t know, but I started to shiver from the cold.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I then saw another boy. I thought he was Noah’s friend. I asked if he wanted to join us in the water. Next thing I heard was this ear-piercing noise.”

  Callaway knew the other boy had stumbled upon Hope and Noah, and that the boy had blown a whistle his parents had given to him in case of an emergency.

  “The noise disoriented me, and I thought I would fall into the water. Then other people showed up. They took Noah away. I didn’t stop them. I wasn’t sure what was going on. My head hurt from the noise. Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital, and they told me I had hurt Noah.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Bill Engel was of medium height, medium build, and he was balding from the top and sported a light beard. He had pale skin and gray eyes.

  Holt and Fisher were inside Engel’s bungalow.

  Tom Manning had given them Engel’s name. Engel had a long history with Emily’s Place, and Holt and Fisher had driven all the way to speak to him.

  “I’m sure you heard what happened at Emily’s Place,” Holt said.

  “I saw it on the news,” Engel replied.

  “What was your reaction when you did?” Fisher jumped in.

  Engel stared at her. “After what they put me through, I can’t say I was sad.”

  “You were happy, is that right?” Holt said.

  Engel turned to him. “I won’t shed a tear for what happened, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You wanted them dead?”

  Engel let out a short laugh. “I know why you are here.”

  “Why are we here?”

  “You want to know if I was responsible for what happened.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course not. I was at work at the time.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Engel?”

  “I’m a professor of Economics at Hillcrest College. I was conducting a lecture all morning. There are over three hundred students who attended my class. You can speak to all of them to confirm my alibi.”

  “What time was your lecture?”

  “Nine.”

  “We believe the murders at Emily’s Place occurred before seven,” Holt replied. “That’s enough time to commit the act and be at the lecture.”

  A smile crossed Engel’s face. “For morning lectures, I’m usually at the college around seven thirty.”

  “Why so early?”

  “It gives me time to prepare the material I have to present. Also, from eight onwards, my office is open in case students want to drop by and discuss anything from the course. I saw two students. They were waiting for me when I arrived at the college.”

  “We would like their names to confirm this,” Holt said.

  “That’s not a problem.”

  Fisher then said, “What is your grudge against Emily’s Place, anyway?”

  Engel’s jaw tightened, and between gritted teeth, he said, “They helped my ex-wife take my children away from me.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because my ex-wife is a conniving, manipulative…”

  He stopped short of calling her a vulgar name.

  “And you blame the center for this?”

  “Yes… and no. My ex told them lies and they believed her. I understand that they want to help women, but who helps guys like me? You know how many times I’ve been arrested? Almost a dozen times. My ex has put a restraining order on me even though I have never threatened her. I’ve been taken away in handcuffs because she has accused me of hitting her. In truth, she had been violent with me.” He paused to control his emotions. “She was bitter and angry that I wanted a divorce. She used the children against me. I have not seen my two sons in almost a year now. I give her child support, but she doesn’t spend it on the kids. She spends it on herself. I’ve gone to court to force her to spend the money on the kids, but the judge says the children are in her care, and she can do whatever she wants with the money. When I was allowed to see my children, I once raised my voice at my oldest son for doing something wrong. She found out, and I was charged with child abuse. I couldn’t even discipline my children without fear that it might prevent me from seeing them again. I’ve racked up legal bills in the tens of thousands. I’m fighting a battle I can’t win. The only thing I can do is wait for my children to become adults so they can make a decision for themselves if they want to see me. But by then, I would have missed all the wonderful years of their childhood. And by then, my ex would have fed them enough lies about me that they’ll think I’m the most vile and despicable person on the planet.” His eyes turned moist and he looked away. He then said, “It’s not always one-sided.”

  Holt said, “Do you own a weapon, Mr. Engel?”

  “Are you crazy?” Engel scoffed. “If my ex found out I owned a gun, whatever hope I have of seeing my children again would disappear forever.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Craig Hammel walked out of Malvern County Sheriff’s Office. He was extremely tall and lanky. His shoulders stooped, making him look like he had a hump on his back.

  Hammel was the detective who had investigated Hope for the murder of her son. Callaway approached him just as he was about to get inside his dark sedan.

  “Detective Hammel?”

  Hammel turned to him. “Yes?”

  “My name is Mike Lantern. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

  “About what?”

  “Hope Parsons.”

  Hammel’s steely eyes bore into him. “Why are you suddenly interested in her?”

  “I’m actually writing a book on women who kill, and I was planning to devote a chapter to Hope Parsons.”

  Hammel blinked. “A book, you say?”

  “Yes. I’m really fascinated with her story. I had followed the case way back when it had happened. I remembered reading your name in one of the articles.”

  Hammel smiled. “My name, huh?”

  Callaway nodded.

  “What would you like to know?” Hammel asked eagerly.

  “Anything and everything.”

  “I would love to say that it was a complicated investigation, but I’m afraid that would not be true. It was actually an open-and-shut case. There were witnesses at the scene who saw Hope Parsons next to her son’s dead body.”

  “Could the body have been there before she arrived at the scene?” Callaway asked.

  “It was something I considered as well, but the timing of the death matched the time Hope Parsons was in the water with her son.”

  “Okay.”

  “Also, we could not find
anyone who could confirm whether they saw Hope Parsons go to Erie Lake without her son. We can only assume they went together.”

  “Assumptions aren’t solid evidence,” Callaway said.

  “True,” Hammel said, “but let me say this: if Hope Parsons went out looking for her son like she said she did, then how did she know where to find him?”

  “She said a voice told her.”

  “Exactly,” Hammel said. “She heard voices. And I bet it’s the same voice that told her to drown her son.”

  Callaway was silent.

  “Did you know the boy’s lungs were filled with salt water? We had it tested, and it was the same water from the lake. Someone had held him underwater for a very long time.”

  “But no one saw her actually do it, isn’t that right?” Callaway said.

  “The key witness at the scene said Hope Parsons made no attempts to save her son. In fact, she just watched him as he tried to give the boy CPR.”

  “If she had killed her son, why didn’t she leave the scene?” Callaway said.

  “She’s crazy, that’s why.”

  Callaway glared at him.

  Hammel backtracked. “Listen, she’s unwell. There was no argument from me or the prosecution to oppose that. That’s why we agreed not to let her go to prison, even though that’s what the public had wanted. We knew she wasn’t aware of her actions. She didn’t mean to kill her son. A voice, perhaps, told her to do it. But we still have to hold someone responsible. She was caught at the scene of the crime.”

  “What if she’s like that person from the movies who arrives at the scene to find their loved one dead, and when they go to check up on them, the police show up and catch them holding the knife, covered in blood?”

  Hammel laughed. “If that were true, then the key witness stumbled upon her just in time.”

  “But there is a possibility of that.”

  Hammel said, “This is real life, not some work of fiction. Hope Parsons made no attempt to revive her son. The officers on the scene said she did not even shed a tear once they told her of his death. That doesn’t sound like someone arriving at the scene and finding a loved one covered in blood. They are usually hysterical at the loss of their loved one.”

  Callaway paused. “What if she didn’t know what was happening around her?”

  “Exactly. She did not know what she had done because she was suffering from mental illness. It’s all in the case file.”

  “About that,” Callaway said. “Do you mind if I take a look at the file?”

  “Be my guest,” Hammel said. He then pulled out his business card and wrote something on it. “Go down to Records and give them this.” He handed him the card. “They’ll let you have access to everything related to the case.”

  “Thank you,” Callaway said.

  Hammel opened his car door. “Let me know when your book is published. I would like to read it.”

  Callaway smiled. “I’ll send you a signed copy myself.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Fisher was behind the wheel of the Honda SUV with Holt in the passenger seat. They were on the freeway when Fisher said, “I think what happened at Emily’s Place was a hate crime.”

  Holt frowned. “I don’t know. I feel this was personal.”

  Fisher gave him a look. “Isn’t hate crime personal? You have someone who hates others for a particular reason. It could be race, religion, or even gender, and they use that hate to strike in a violent manner.”

  “I agree with you on that. I just don’t think someone targeted Emily’s Place because it was a center for women.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I’m not, but Emily Riley was shot more times than the others.”

  “We know that already, but so what?”

  “Someone wanted her dead.”

  “That’s my point,” Fisher said. “Emily Riley owned and operated the center. Her name was on the front of the building. She represented everything the center did for women.”

  Holt fell silent. He looked out the window.

  They drove for a few minutes before Fisher said, “Is it because you’re a man that you don’t want to believe it could be a hate crime?”

  He turned to her. “Me being a man has nothing to do with this.”

  “Ever since we started this investigation, you have not given any credence to the fact that a man may have killed three women out of revenge.”

  “I just don’t believe the facts can lead us to make that conclusion right now.”

  “Do explain,” Fisher said, annoyed.

  “Emily Riley’s injuries were more than the other victims.”

  “You’ve already said that.”

  “Emily Riley had called Paige Giles and Melody Ferguson to come into work earlier than their scheduled time. Why would she do that?”

  It was Fisher’s turn to go silent.

  She then said, “Someone had a vendetta against the center, and they wanted everyone associated with the center dead.”

  “If so, then why leave the pamphlet from the Men’s Support Alliance conveniently on Emily Riley’s desk for us to find?”

  “Maybe Emily Riley was reading it when she was shot.”

  “It just feels like a setup.”

  “I think you are letting your emotions get the better of you.”

  Holt turned to her. “I could say the same to you.”

  Fisher gripped the wheel tightly. “These women devoted their lives to helping others. So yes, I do feel an obligation as a woman to find their killer and punish him for what he has done.”

  “Are you sure the killer is male?”

  Fisher opened her mouth but then shut it.

  An uneasy silence settled over them.

  Holt broke the silence. “There is a reason I wanted you next to me on this case.”

  “Why?” Fisher asked, irritated. “So that you could convince yourself it wasn’t a crime against women?”

  “No, quite the opposite. I wanted you with me on this case so that my emotions did not get the better of me. When I saw those dead women in the center, I had this urge to lash out. I wanted to hurt whoever did this. I knew my rage would blind me in my pursuit of the truth. I needed someone to keep me focused so that I followed the facts instead of letting my passion take over.”

  Fisher stared at him.

  He then said, “We have to tread carefully on this case. We can’t jump to conclusions without concrete proof. The results could have a divisive impact.”

  Fisher knew what he was saying. Both groups—men and women—were waiting to see who was responsible for what happened at the center. The conclusion could give one group more ammo in their cause.

  As detectives, they could not choose one side over the other. Their side was the law. They followed it regardless of where it led them and to whom. It did not matter if that person was male or female, black or white, rich or poor. What mattered was that the person was punished for the crime they had committed.

  At the moment, Holt and Fisher were no closer to determining who had killed three women with full lives ahead of them.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Callaway grabbed the case file and headed straight for a coffee shop. After ordering coffee and a donut, he took a seat in the corner.

  He knew if he had told Craig Hammel that he was a private eye, Hammel might not have been very forthcoming, and he most certainly would not have let Callaway access his case files.

  The record keeper was kind enough to give Callaway the original file. Callaway would go through the file and make photocopies of anything that might be useful to him.

  He took a sip from the paper cup and opened the file, which he spent the next hour going through. Some of the file’s contents were hard to look at, especially photos of Noah Parsons’s bloated body.

  Callaway’s heart ached for the little boy. He also felt anger rise at whoever did this to Noah.

  Suddenly, he could not help but feel a certain animosity toward Hope Parsons.
The judge had deemed her responsible for the death. Until Callaway could find something to contradict that, he had to go with the assumption that she did kill her son.

  It was difficult for him to work for someone who was found guilty of a crime. That did not mean she could not have been wrongly accused.

  But the more he dug into the file, the more uncertain he became.

  Callaway leaned back in his chair and stared at the coffee shop’s ceiling.

  He could not help but circle back to her mental illness. Hope did not remember drowning her son, but that did not mean she didn’t do it.

  What have you got yourself into, Lee? he thought.

  He knew he was in a lose-lose situation. All evidence pointed to Hope as the culprit, and he doubted digging further into the case would change that. And the money—even if he accepted it—was not sufficient for what he was tasked to do.

  Then there was the matter of reputation. If word got out that he was working for a convicted child killer, potential clients might not choose to hire him.

  I should just walk away from this case, he thought. But how can I? I just agreed to take it on.

  He sighed and began to go through the file once more.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Holt and Fisher were inside a bright room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Clive Buckley had silver hair, a double chin, and pudgy fingers.

  Buckley was the head of Buckley Security, the firm that had installed the alarm system at Emily’s Place.

  “After what happened at the center,” he said, “we are re-evaluating all our procedures.”

  “What do you mean?” Holt asked.

  “We are now advising all our clients to keep their security cameras running at all times.”

  “Are you saying the cameras at Emily’s Place were not turned on?” Holt said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Holt frowned.

  “Prior to the tragedy at the center,” Buckley said, “we let the client decide how they wanted to handle their security. What I mean by that is the onus was on them to make sure the alarm was activated and that the cameras were fully functioning. We took no responsibility for any theft or damage to a property.” He paused. “Let me rephrase that: We are still not financially responsible for any loss. That is something between the clients and their insurance company. But we now feel a moral responsibility to enforce certain protocols on the clients. If they are not going to use our equipment in the manner it was intended for, then perhaps they should seek other companies to provide them the security they required.”